


I Bet On Losing Terms

by mintaero



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, FIFA, Fifa AU, Fluff, Football | Soccer, M/M, Oneshot, Switzerland v Brazil, also yes this might be biased, baz gets HYPE when fifa is on, dont look at me like that, i hope ppl like it, i wanted this to be a drabble but it didnt turn out that way, just saying, this is domestic as fuck, this took me too long to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 22:33:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15277608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintaero/pseuds/mintaero
Summary: It takes Baz a full 30 seconds to recover from that. Stuttering slightly with a newfound pink tinge on his cheeks, he says, “You aren’t exempt from bets just because we’re boyfriends. In fact, you’re more susceptible to petty bargains just because we’re snogging.”





	I Bet On Losing Terms

**Author's Note:**

> quick domestic snowbaz fifa oneshot! merci beaucoup to @great_merlins_beard (@great-merlins-beard on tumblr) for proofing it! also @BasicBathsheba there's a joke in here that's aimed directly at you. you know which one it is.

**SIMON**

Baz has gone completely and utterly bat-shit crazy.

He always gets like this during the World Cup, all aggressive and hostile. He’s been shouting at the TV since half time, and I don’t think he’s realized that the people on the other side can’t hear him. Last FIFA, Baz nearly broke the television remote when Germany won because he was gripping it so deathly hard.

“Baz, settle down,” Penelope croons from the sofa, not looking up. She’s typing away furiously on her computer, her hair piled in a messy ball on the top of her head. She’s been working on her thesis statement for _days_ , yet somehow, she can find time to watch the World Cup with us.

“Fuck off, Bunce. Brazil and Switzerland are going.” He’s sat back down on the couch— _finally_ —but he still looks like he’s about to jump back up and pounce on the television at any given moment.

“Who do we want to win?” I ask, readjusting myself on the ground beside Baz’s feet.

The announcer on the TV mumbles something about a player being apparently injured, and Baz curses.

“What was that, Simon?” Baz arches his eyebrow but doesn’t look at me. I accidentally bump my wing on his back, and he scoots forward like he thinks I’ve just asked him to.

“Who—”

“ _YES, ALISSON!_ ’ Baz shouts, springing up and rubbing his hands together. He’s glaring at the TV with a sort of manic energy. He’s a manic person.

I sigh and throw my head back. There’s no talking to him when he’s like this. “You’re going to break the sound barrier.”

Baz glances down at me. Only for a second. “Bunce, please explain to Snow that breaking the sound barrier only occurs when you go _fast_. Not when you’re loud.”

“Heed his words, Simon.” Penny stops typing and looks at me.

“Come on, Marcelo. Come on, come on, come _on_ ,” Baz chants. He gets so into FIFA, it’s not even funny. Living and breathing it until a winner is announced, and then suddenly he’s back to his usual self. He always seems so much healthier and alive when the World Cup is playing.

Baz is the only person I know who gets _less_ stressed when FIFA’s on. Maybe not _less stressed_ , but he forgets to focus on the usual things that stress him out. Like university or eating. Baz has been a prick about eating. Lately, it’s a win if I get him to snack on some crisps, let alone a full meal. Maybe I take back what I said about Baz being _healthier_.

Penelope slams her computer closed a little too harshly and stands up, stretching her arms over her head. I reach over and try to tug down her skirt that’s bunched up a bit too high on her thighs, but she swats my hand away and does it herself.

“I’m going to get out. My thesis statement isn’t going anywhere, and Baz is going mental and I can’t stand another minute of it. You want to come, Simon?” She unties her bun and shakes her hair out.

I consider getting up to sit on the couch, but I don’t want to feel the springs of the couch move every time Baz jumps up, so I stay sat on the space between the couch and the coffee table and pull my legs up to my chest. “Where’re you going?”

“Tesco’s, probably. Are you coming?”

“No, I don’t think so. Will you get me something there?”

Penny rests her hand on her hip and tilts her head to the side. “Like what, ‘mon?”

“I dunno. Roast beef sandwich? Scones? Do you think we’re getting low on butter?” My stomach rumbles at the thought of a warm cherry scone with butter spread over the top and slowly melting. Since Watford, my accessibility to _really_ good sour cherry scones have gone down dramatically, so I get by with mediocre biscuits and _I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!_ butter. (Baz frequently tries to remind me that _I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!_ isn’t butter.) (“ _It’s margarine, Snow. Margarine is different from butter.”_ )

“Simon, we’re never low on butter. I’ll get you a chocolate sweet, yeah? Baz, you want—”

“No, thank you, Bunce. I’d rather no—Oh, oh, OH! _OH!_ ” The red-jersey football player on the screen headbutts the ball and scores a goal. Two more instant replays of the goal are shown in slow motion, and Baz is practically screeching his head off. I get the feeling that no one quite expected the red-jerseys to get a goal. Baz surely didn’t, either, because he’s cursing like a drunken Scottish banshee. (Those things are little shits if you ever meet them. Especially the Scottish ones. Wit as sharp as a blade. Literally. They will cut you.)

Penny _tuts_. “Honestly, Baz. If you’re going to curse like a basic American white girl turned into a banshee—” even _she_ knows “—then do it privately. It’s unsettling.”

Baz makes concise eye contact. Precisely, he enunciates each word, “Fuck a nine toed fucking troll, Penelope goddamn Bunce. Fucking Switzerland just scored a mother ass-fucking son-of-a-bitch goal with a shitting-on-your-nipples fucking headbutt. _I_ am the fucking one who’s fucking unsettled.”

Penelope’s face twists like she just drank some rank Ribena. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Don’t forget—”

“Chocolate sweets, yeah, I know. See you.”

“See you.”

And then she’s out the door. She didn’t take her car keys, so I know that Micah’s probably out front right now, waiting for her at the bottom of our flat.

“Baz. Would you sit down?”

“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Bunce. Fuck. Off.”

“No, you.” I push myself off the ground. “I’m going to make a sandwich.”

“I don’t want one.”

“I know. I wasn’t going to ask you.”

He mutters something too low for me to hear, so I push myself off the floor and head towards the kitchen. I dig around the fridge for sandwich supplies, then to the pantry for bread and crisps. (Salt-and-Vinegar, the bastard.) (He knows I don’t like those.)

Laying everything out on the counter, I glance at Baz. He looks near to throttling someone. I’ve never known that he actually likes to _watch_ football games rather than play in them; for him, I always thought playing football was more of a pastime. A diversion for everything that was at stake.

I’m fits that I’m wrong about him. I was wrong about everything before, so. Naturally.

He runs his hand through his hair, resting it on the crown of his head before pulling it through the rest of his locks. He’s switching his weight between both legs consistently, and it’s making me anxious.

“You’re making me anxious,” I say. “Stop pacing.”

“I’m not _pacing_.” He snarls, a bit brashly. “I think they’re going to tie.”

“Who?”

“Who?” Baz echoes, looking back at me and sneering. Crowley, I thought we were past the _sneering_ by now. “What do you mean, _who_? Switzerland and Brazil. I think they’re going to tie.”

“Rubbish. Brazil is mighty fit, they’ll win for sure.”

He shakes his head and turns back to the screen, watching it intently. I go back to making my sandwich.

“I bet you £20 that Brazil’ll win,” I say, slicing a tomato cleanly down the middle. When he turns back around, an eyebrow is arched as high as his widow’s peak.

“Fifty.”

I groan. “C’mon Baz, it’s just a bet. Twenty’s fair.”

“It’s fair,” he grins wickedly, and I feel heat crawl up my neck. “But it isn’t fun.”

“Fine. Forty.” I mush the two halves of the sandwich into one and take a bite. “That’s the highest I’ll go.”

“Deal,” he flops back on the couch, kicking his feel up on the coffee table and stretching his arms on top of either side of the couch. “Also, you’re a terrible negotiator. I would’ve went down to thirty if you’d asked.”

“Fuck you, Baz. Seriously.”

“Ah, no. That would be _you_ that just got fucked and lost £40 to me.”

Forty fucking pounds. I can tell there’s roses on my cheeks even before I brush my knuckles against them. The only reason I’m blushing is because he just implied that I was fucked by him. By _Baz_. He can’t just _say_ that.

 _Crowley_.

I set my sandwich back down on the counter and open the cupboard, reaching for a plate. (Penelope always scolds me when I get crumbs on the couch.)

“Sh- _Fucking hell_!” Baz yells from living room. He startles me so badly that my wings fly open and my tail starts whipping around by my hips and I jerk my hand back down to my side.

He’s _mental_.

“Baz!” I gasp. “Don’t _do_ that!”

He looks back at me, and I can tell from the way that his expression softens that he just realises he’s scared me. “Sorry, love. It was a really close goal.”

Absolutely _mental_ , I tell you.

Baz looks back at the match, and I huff at the ground. My sandwich has dropped. Knocked off by my tail, more like, but still. There’s bits of tomato and lettuce strewn about, and one half of the bread is sticking to the bottom cabinet. I squat down and start peeling the cheese and such off the tiles and wood, grimacing.

I shouldn’t have used the good cheese.

It takes me a second to get back from the squat, but I manage to make it up without _all_ the blood flowing to my head. (Merlin, it’s not like I’m elderly.) The tomatoes are leaking in my hand, so I bumble to the bin and dump my hand.

Setting aside the deflating realisation that I don’t have enough mental compacity to make another sandwich, I shake some crisps into the nearest thing on the counter, which happens to be a (thankfully, clean) mug. I bring the mug back to the couch and flop down along side of Baz, daring to rest my head on his shoulder. He made me drop my sandwich. He can live without moving for a few minutes as I grieve.

“I hope you’ve got your £40 on hand,” Baz says, his shoulders tensing when a player on screen kicks the ball and narrowly misses the goal. “Because you just lost the bet.”

I shake my head, popping a few crisps in my mouth. “There’s still stoppage time.”

“You’re placing your remaining hope on the very last 2-3 minutes of the game? How very _calculating_ you are,” Baz pulls his head away and looks at me. “And you chew like a hyena.”

I shove him a bit, picking my head up off his shoulder and grabbing another handful of crisps. “Isn’t it laugh?”

He looks at me funny. “Beg your pardon?”

“I mean,” I kick my legs up on the coffee table. “Don’t hyenas have that bloody insane laugh?”

“Yes, they quite do. However, _my_ laugh is going to be just as ridiculous when you hand over forty pounds.”

I groan. “So bloody cocky.”

“It’s not like I _spelt_ the match in my favour, now is it?”

My eyes widen. “You didn’t.”

He laughs. High and quick. “No, I didn’t. It’s in Russia for Crowley’s sakes; my magic can’t stretch that far.”

I relax into the cushions and try to focus on the screen, silently urging team to score again. I really could give less of a crap who scores, but _someone_ needs to. I’ll be damned to Slough if I have to pay Baz half my daily paycheck.

There’s twenty more minutes until the 90-minute mark, so I munch anxiously on some more crisps and try to focus my nerves on the stoppage time. The minutes tick by slowly, slowly, slowly, until I feel myself fighting to keep my eyes open. It really isn’t an exciting game. I could always just…simply nod off. Even for a few minutes.

A few minutes won’t hurt anyone…

“Simon?” Baz pinches my arm, and I pull my elbow away. Somehow, I’ve managed to curl up on the opposite side of Baz, my face smushed into the sofa. “Snow, wake up. The match is over.”

I open my groggy eyes and groan. “Mmpgh. Is it?”

“Yeah, you fell asleep.” Baz pokes at my cheek. “Also, guess what.”

I roll over, my wing stretching out in the space beside me. Where Baz is. “What?”

I feel the heat of his breath as he leans down to whisper in my ear, the hairs on my arms standing up as he says, “You owe me forty pounds.”

Fuck.

The bet.

I sit up fully, matting the side of my hair back down with my hand. “I want to see the score.”

“Get up, then.”

“I am up.”

“No—Get your phone and check the score. It’s not going to change the fact that you, Snow, just lost £40 to me with a picayune and trifling bet.”

There’s a sort of silence in the air, and it’s because, I realise too late, that the TV is turned off. I shove Baz over to his own side and reach for the coffee table, where my phone is, and unlock it.

According to a Google search, Baz is right.

 _Christ and Crowley’s Christmas,_ that bloody wanker. He’s right. The match ended in a tie, and I’d missed it.

“Baz,” I throw my phone back on the couch and stand up. “Don’t I get a discount since we’re shagging?”

It takes Baz a full 30 seconds to recover from that. Stuttering slightly with a newfound pink tinge on his cheeks, he says, “You aren’t exempt from bets just because we’re boyfriends. In fact, you’re more susceptible to petty bargains _just because_ we’re snogging.”

I groan again. My wallet’s in the armoire by the front door, so I drag my feet all the way there, giving Baz the middle finger the whole way.

“I can’t believe you’re making me pay you.” I open the drawer and chuck my wallet at Baz. It hits him in the chest. Good. “Take _only_ forty.”

Baz grins at me. There’s still a hint of pink on his cheeks. “Calm down, Snow. I’m not going to embezzle money from you.”

“Like you are right now?”

“You lost a bet, fair and square. Stop whining about it.” Baz neatly removes two twenties out of my wallet, placing it in the back of his jeans and then tossing it back to me. I grab it just before it slips out of my hands and put it back on the drawer.

“Next game, _you_ owe _me_ forty.”

“That isn’t…That isn’t how it _works_ , Simon.”

I scoff, raking my hand through my hair and walking back to the couch. “You’re buying dinner tonight.”

“Technically, _you_ ar—”

“Fuck. Off.”

Baz smiles again, and I have to look away. He settles back into the sofa with a cheeky grin on his face (I can’t decide whether I want to kick or kiss it off) and turns back on the television. It’s paused on a match recap directly following the actual match, the two broadcasters frozen mid-sentence, lips parted.

I make sure to keep my knees and wings far away from him as I sit on the couch. He’s still grinning. I’ve gotten more accustomed to his smile, it’s more of a lighthearted sneer than anything.

“Could you _move ove_ —”

Baz swings his legs over mine and sits right in my leg. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, as the side of my leg is shoved up his crotch and he’s more or less standing over me than sitting on me.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Me, giving you your money’s worth.”

Before I can ask what in Crowley’s name that’s supposed to mean and how it relates to a _bet_ , he’s holding my jaw and shutting me up with his lips.

Maybe this time won’t be an _implied_ fucking.


End file.
